Breaking the Circle
by Rabirhek
Summary: A tag to 'The Thirteenth Step', spoilers for the main Season 6 storyline. How does Agent Prentiss react to the news about the disappearance of an old nemesis? Begun to be written immediately after 6x13; necessarily AU as it deviates from the show.
1. Prologue

"_Am I in danger?"_

"_We all are."_

_

* * *

_

When Agent Prentiss steps outside of the restaurant, a rush of icy wind slaps her across the face. Shivering, she squares her shoulders and pulls her coat tighter around herself. She's not quite sure whether it's just the chill of the night that creeps into her bones.

"Emily."

The weight of the large hand on her shoulder feels grounding. She looks up and meets Sean's gaze. The hard look in his eyes is even more settling than the touch.

"We'll get him," he says in an uncompromising voice. "Like we did the first time."

"Of course," Emily agrees, nodding briskly. Of course they'll get him. She has to believe that, just like she had believed it the first time. She tries not to remember how many lives had been lost in the pursuit.

"Let me take you home."

She nods again, without a thought of disagreement, and falls into step with her old friend. The harsh words of her former boss, reaching through her from many years ago, rings in her ears: _as long as that man is on the loose, nobody goes anywhere alone._

_Right, boss,_ she thinks as she gets into Sean's rental jeep. Constant company had not prevented six of her colleagues' demise at the hands of Ian Doyle. But at the moment, it's still the most solid piece of advice that she's got.

It takes a ridiculously short time to reach her apartment across Capitol Hill. She can't even remember giving Sean the directions. The jeep gently comes to a halt, right in front of the steps to her apartment, and she breathes deeply. Turning aside, she grips Sean's calloused hand and squeezes it like a lifeline.

"Keep in touch."

It sounds very much like a plea.

"I will." Sean pauses, his eyes boring into hers. "Emily, you should reconsider leaving the country."

She shakes her head. "I can't. You know it doesn't matter to him where we are," she presses when Sean tries to argue. "I will be safer with my team," she adds. It's not clear whether she's reassuring Sean or herself.

Sean breaks eye contact and turns his unsettled gaze to the bright lights surrounding the Capitol Hill. "I'll be on the move; so will Parks and Monroe," he supplies in a low, rusty voice. Emily has always liked that about him; Sean's voice is a token of his mood. When he's in a good mood, his booms like thunder, exploding with a contagious energy. When he's sober, it's as hard as rock. But when he addresses her again, that rock is eroded with worry.

"You shouldn't stay put, Emily. You're too easy to locate here in DC-"

"-spending my every minute with the best agents the Bureau's got," she cuts him across. It's like the words are leaving her mouth out of her own accord; why she's trying to argue with him, she isn't sure.

"It didn't do us any good the last time," Sean says forcefully. He throws suspicious glances outside through the apartment, checking the street from the rear mirror. Emily leans in closer to him.

"I work with the best team in the Bureau," she says, emphasizing every single word. "If there's any chance of me being safe from Doyle, it is with them."

"So you will tell them about him," Sean states.

"I don't know," Emily admits slowly, leaning back in her seat. "If the Interpol has reopened the case –"

"Tell them."

Emily frowns.

"If you trust them to keep you safe, they need to know what you need protection from. Screw Interpol; this is your life we're talking about."

Swallowing, Emily nods her agreement.

"Are you leaving tonight?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm headed to the airport now."

She doesn't ask where he's going, or under what name. She just nods. "Be careful, Sean."

"You too," Sean replies. For the first time, there's a touch of softness in his voice.

With a final squeeze of his hand, Emily lets go and climbs out of the car. The first thing she notices is that the nearest street light is out of function. A foggy darkness floats about the pavement until it dissolves into the faint light at the top of the stairs. Her own creeping shadow on the asphalt looks like a gothic décor; she quickly averts her gaze and looks back to Sean's worried face. Walking around the car, she climbs the steps and turns around to look at her friend for one last time.

Sean raises his hand in salutation, and Emily responds in kind. Then, the engine grumbles in the muffled silence of the street, and far quicker than she would have liked, Sean is gone.

She walks quickly into the building and closes the door.

She knows that until Doyle is caught again, her life will never be the same.


	2. A Day at the Office

_A/N:__ The French in this chapter, I am aware, is a messy massacre of the language, and for that I apologize. My French is definitely better than Ziva's Turkish, but not good enough to correct the horrible mistakes of Google translator. That being said, if you're a native speaker and would be so kind as to help me fix it, I'd very much appreciate a PM. If not, again, I apologize for the poor execution. There's a rough translation of the content at the end of the chapter._

**

* * *

Chapter One  
**

The night is full of ghosts.

As she lies motionless in her bed, Agent Prentiss's mind floats just above consciousness, but far below the realm of sleep. With heavily-lidded eyes she watches the grotesque play of shapeless shadows on the ceiling. Voices from the past whisper in her ear, lending themselves to the fragments of creeping darkness above her head.

_Sean, thundering in the small conference room._

"…_found her in the garage of her house. Her son was there, for God's sake-"_

Emily blinks.

_Her boss showering orders after Doyle's third attack._

"_Prentiss, you and Parks, talk to the girl; Monroe, Wronski, take care of the crime scene-"_

Blink.

"—_Emily, down!"_

_A gunshot._

"_Mike!"_

Blink.

_The hints of a body under the white cover. Coldness creeping into her soul._

"_I'm sorry for your loss."_

Blink.

_Sean, sitting at the table, shoulders slumped, face crumpled. _

"_It's the boss. Doyle's got to her."_

Slowly, her eyelids drape over the cruel play she's watching, but she doesn't notice it. The ghosts and the voices are already inside her head.

At long last, stealthily, morning light invades the room, chasing the shadows away from the stage. The alarm of the clock finally goes off. Emily's chest heaves with a deep breath as her mind descends back to awareness. With accustomed fingers, she turns off the alarm, and stretches in bed.

Her body aches as though she's been beaten.

_Doyle. Doyle's escaped. _

Has she stopped thinking about it for a minute since going to bed?

But it's a new day. Getting out of the bed, she walks to the window. The broken street lamp down the street doesn't look nearly as frightening.

Emily shivers. Yes, it's a very cold day. But it's bright enough.

She walks to the shower with determined steps.

/

"Good morning."

"Morning," Prentiss returns the brisk greeting of the unit chief. The sunglasses are still perched on the bridge of her nose; everything seems oddly dimmed in the stuffed elevator, and she's grateful for it. Hotch does not seem to notice the unusual quietness of her voice, and Prentiss automatically switches to her profiler mode.

To anyone other than the members of his team, Agent Hotchner seems as stoic as he has ever been. He stands upright, briefcase clasped in one hand, the identifying frown set on his face. But for Prentiss, there's a barely noticeable curve to his shoulders. The constant darkness under his eyes stands out even more against his pale skin, and under the prominence of his brow, his hazel eyes are clouded with something Prentiss cannot fully identify.

Prentiss wonders if the shadows hide in her eyes, too.

"Everything all right?" she asks. Hotch regards her with a sideways glance before replying with a small sigh.

"Yeah. Jack is struggling a bit with his new school, that's all." His voice is as quiet as Prentiss's; and it reminds her of Sean. It's not the firm, authoritative voice Hotch uses in line of duty. It's the low-key, carefully guarded voice reserved for the rare times he shares something personal.

Emily nods. "It's always difficult for a kid to adjust to a new environment."

What she's said is highly generic, although spoken from experience, and maybe rather open to discussion, but Hotch nods with an appreciative gesture and leaves it at that. As they step outside the elevator, Prentiss has a sense that there's more to the matter than the trouble of his son getting used to a new school, but she won't ask, for she knows Hotch too well, and her mind is occupied with something else.

As they walk together into the bullpen area, she automatically removes the sunglasses and stuffs them into her pocket.

"Good morning," Reid greets them from the kitchenette where he's stirring his cup of coffee. Prentiss and Hotch respond in kind; Hotch carries on his fast stride towards the catwalk, but Prentiss slows down through her desk and nods at Reid.

"Reid, do you mind pouring me a cup, please?"

Her head is pounding with a downbeat rhythm; the name _Ian Doyle_ stuck in her subconscious like a flatline frequency. Where is he? Is he still in Russia, or has he left already? Will he come after them immediately? Will he take his time to taunt them? And Sean- has he landed safely, wherever he's been flying to? When will he call? Are Parks and Monroe still alive?

How much time does she have until Doyle gets to her?

She looks up sharply when Morgan calls her name loudly, which is absurd, because he's standing just next to her.

"What?"

"You all right?"

"Yeah; why?"

Morgan raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Prentiss doesn't need to be a profiler to read the unvoiced question in the gesture. She sighs, head dropping to her palms. "I didn't get any sleep last night and my head is killing me."

A perfectly truthful answer.

"So what was it this time?" asks Reid's amused voice. She looks up when she feels a cup being left on her desk.

"Thank you, Reid." She pulls the cup close and takes a long sip, not seeing Reid's nod as he leans against his own desk just a couple of feet away from hers. She's aware that both men are watching him.

"So?"

"So what?" Prentiss asks without looking up at Morgan. She wishes they'd leave her alone, but they're profilers. She knows better than to throw away the cover they have created for her.

"Was it salsa dancing again, or a long night with a special someone?" Morgan prods. He _is_ teasing her, but Prentiss knows him well enough to feel that he already suspects something's up.

"Neither," she replies, sitting upright and pulling a file from the top of the sack on her desk. She can feel Reid and Morgan exchanging glances, but neither of them presses her for more.

She's thankful for it.

/

It is fifteen minutes before the end of a normal day shift when Garcia strides through Prentiss's desk and informs her that she has a phone call on line three. She says the caller is one _Agent_ Dubois from the Interpol, chuckling as she imitates the accent, and cannot help but add that she's certain he's French. She winks and leaves a comment unvoiced, but Emily knows she's just provided Garcia with yet another reason to adore her.

She eyes the phone on her desk uncertainly before her gaze raises to Morgan, and then, to Reid.

Both of them are looking at her curiously.

Acknowledging them with an elaborate roll of her eyes, she picks up the phone. In truth, her heart is at her throat. Sean has not checked in with her yet, and there's no reason to expect good news from the Interpol.

"Agent Prentiss," she says briskly to the handset.

"_Agent Prentiss, zis iz Agent Louis Dubois from ze Interpol."_

The voice is unfamiliar, but the accent is so thick that it makes Prentiss wince.

"_Agent Dubois, comment puis-je vous-aider?_" she asks, switching quickly to French. She can almost hear Agent Dubois's relief at the other end of the line (just as she can almost feel Morgan and Reid's disappointment).

"_Madame, j__e suis__ désolé__ de vous __informer qu'un condamné__ d'un vos __premiers cas __s'est échappé de la prison__. __Le nom __est __Ian__ Doyle__. __Nous croyons __qu'il est __possible__ qu'il vienne __après que les membres __de __votre__ ancienne équipe __à __l'__Interpol __qui étaient __responsables de __l'attraper__.__"_

Prentiss nods. "_Oui, Monsieur; je suis été informée hier par une ancienne collègue._"

"_Est-ce pas? Par…" _Prentiss hears paper sheets shuffling. _"__Par ancienne Agent Sean McAllister, ou Henry Monroe?"_

"McAllister."

"_D'accord.__ Madame,__ je__ suis __chargé de __vous faire savoir__ que __l'__Interpol __vous offre __détention préventive__ jusqu'au __Doyle__ est __pris __à nouveau__._"

"_Détention préventive?" _Prentiss can't help but repeat. Protective custody. She knows what it's like to be under Interpol's protection. It's a witness protection program stretched all over the world. She shakes her head.

"_Non."_

"_Madame?"_

"_Je__ dois __respectueusement refuser __cette offre__. __Comme vous le__ savez__, je travaille __avec le __FBI __et je __crois __que __je suis __en sécurité ici__.__"_

"_Madame__, vous-etes sûr__?"_ Agent Dubois sounds skeptical, but Prentiss is certain of her decision. She will not go into hiding.

"_Oui, Monsieur, je suis sûr."_

"_D'accord… Et __allez-vous__ le __prendre en considération pour__ les membres de votre__ famille__? __Nous soupçonnons que __votre famille __immédiate__ peuvent aussi __être __en danger.__"_

"Oh God," Prentiss breaths into the phone. Her mother. How come she's never thought about her mother, that she may be in danger as well? After all, Ambassador Prentiss is definitely not a low-profile woman; in fact, she's currently serving in Serbia. _Serbia_. Not far from Russia at all; if Doyle is even still lingering in the area.

Prentiss runs her fingers through her hair in an uncharacteristic display of frustration.

"_Agent Prentiss?"_

"I'm here." She takes a deep breath.

"_Iz der a family member you'd like us to provide protection for?"_

"No. No, there isn't."

"_Agent, it iz stated in your file zat your mother iz the American ambassador for Serbia. Wit respect, I believe ze Interpol can provide her with the protection she may need."_

"I don't think it is necessary," Prentiss replies curtly. She eyes Morgan discreetly, and thinks that despite looking engrossed in a report, he's landing one ear to her conversation. Maybe she's being paranoid; maybe she's being unfair to Derek. But she can't help it.

Agent Dubois pauses at the other end of the line for a second before he resumes. _"If you're sure, Agent."_

"_Oui, Agent," _Prentiss confirms curtly. "_Avez-vous des __connaissances __sur __la situation des agents__ McAllister __et __Monroe? S'ils on en sécurité?__"_

"_Oui, nous avons, mais __tout ce que je__ peux vous dire __est qu'ils __sont__ en vie __et sur la route__. __Est-ce __votre __intention__ de __rester sur place __à Quantico, Agent Prentiss__?__"_

"_Oui.__"_

"_Bien; n__ous __prendrons contact avec vous__ sur cette ligne, si __nous __devons__.__"_

"_C'est bien. Encore une fois, Agent, je vous remercier."_

"_Bonne chance, Agent Prentiss."_

"_Merci."*_

She ends the call and leaves the handset back in place. For the next few seconds, she waits for the interrogation to begin, but it doesn't. Reid's eyes are sweeping case files as one bony finger keeps up with the speed of his reading, sliding through the end of each page. Morgan is typing on his computer.

Prentiss feels suffocated. She glares at the clock across the bullpen area; it's five fifty-five. She didn't get any work done during the day, but she cannot stand sitting there anymore. She pushes her chair back, stands, and begins walking through Hotch's office. She _does _hear Morgan's whisper to Reid, asking '_what the hell was that about?' _and sees Reid's shrug. She deliberately ignores them.

She knocks sharply before sticking her head into Hotch's office.

"Yes?" Hotch asks, without looking up from his paperwork.

"Sir, I thought I'd let you know that I'm calling it a day. I'll fill in the last case's reports at home, if that's all right."

Hotch looks up. "So long as I have them on my desk tomorrow morning."

"They will be."

Curtly, Hotch nods. "That's fine."

"Thank you."

She turns, walks back to her desk, gathers the files, and with a hasty goodbye to Morgan and Reid, leaves the BAU headquarters.

Her head is about to explode. She's waiting anxiously for Sean's call, and aside from the paperwork she needs to get done, there's something else that she needs to deal with.

How is she going to tell her mother about Ian Doyle?

/

* * *

_Basically, Agent Dubois informs Prentiss about Doyle's escape, says they suspect he's after the members of Prentiss's old team, and that Interpol offers her and her family protection until Doyle is caught. When Prentiss refuses, he asks if she intends to stay put at Quantico, and tells her they'll contact her from that same line if they need to. The rest is all "are you sure?"s and "thank you very much"s._

_Edit: Thank you, CMlover, for the warning about "qui". I used to make that mistake all the time while taking language classes; it cost me more than a few point in written exams. Apparently, taking three years off from French didn't do much good either. :)  
_


	3. Lines of Communication

_**A/N:** Because I'm endlessly discontent with _Lauren_ and because I had begun to write this story immediately after seeing _The Thirteenth Step_, my Ian Doyle and his storyline about Prentiss are, as you know, necessarily different. If I don't mention something in this story, it means that doesn't have a place in this story; i.e. Prentiss having worked for CIA. Frankly it bothers me little how my original storyline intertwines with how things went down in the show. This is just a friendly advice that it'd be best if you'd try and read this without trying to fully connect it to the pertaining episodes. If you haven't seen episodes 6x13 through 6x18, this story might confuse you as to what's a spoiler and what's not; it's your choice if you'd like to read anyway. Regardless, this storyline will breathe on its own._

_Thanks, and enjoy. Let me know what you think. Does Emily sound Emily Prentiss enough?_

* * *

**Chapter II – Lines of Communication**

After another long, sleepless night, things seem to get better as soon as Emily walks into the BAU the next morning. Garcia walks past her as a blurry shape of blues and yellows and speaks without taking a breath, her voice steadily blending with the buzz of the crowd with the speed of her stride.

"Good morning, sunshine; you got a call from the lovely-accented Mr. McAllister, he said he'll call back at nine-thirty sharp -which is any second now- they'll direct the call straight to you- oh, and you look riveting."

Emily catches her playful wink just before Garcia disappears behind a group of agents. Her heart beating sharper with anticipation, she turns to look at the clocks across the wall, and surely enough, it's only seconds before the hand hits nine-thirty. Emily breaks into a rapid, purposeful stride towards her desk, barely even noticing that both Reid and Morgan are at their respective desks, annoyingly close to hers. She's only a step away when her desk phone begins to ring; she throws her bag loudly on the ground and picks up the handset before the first ring ends.

"Prentiss."

Her tone is so crisp that the caller may have felt like walking into a wall, but if they have, it certainly doesn't show when they speak.

_"It's me."_

It is the unmistakable, rusty voice of Sean McAllister. Two words in one breath, and Emily can already hear the tension in his voice. It is Sean alright; Emily also picks up an underlying smokiness in his tone, a tone that says there are things he knows but cannot tell her, and that there are things he suspects and will not tell her. It's a good thing that she can read his voice, though she doesn't like what she hears.

She pulls the chair and sits down, her coat still on. "It's good to hear your voice," she confides quietly to the handset.

_"Parks is dead."_

"He-" Emily catches herself before repeating it aloud. She throws a sideways glance to her co-workers, and is quite aware that both Reid and Morgan can very well hear the entire conversation, because, damn it, where is that noise of the crowd that's just been by the doors when she walked in? But if this is the only time and only line that Sean can communicate with her, then she can care about her teammates' overhearing later.

"How?" she asks instead, her insides clenching at the news. She hasn't even thought about Wesley Parks in near a decade. He was, nonetheless, her Interpol team member, and she irrationally remembers one incident where Parks was beaten by a crazy old woman during an interrogation. It had been a source of endless teasing for Emily; now, suddenly, she feels a completely nonsensical guilt settle in her stomach like a pile of sand.

_"Entire family's found dead; official COD is food poisoning."_There's a sour layer of anger beneath Sean's brisk answer.

"Food poisoning?" Emily repeats incredulously. "Poison's not his style—"

_"Yeah, and what does that tell you?"_ Sean asks with the same tone. Emily knows it's more of a rhetorical question, because what it means is crystal clear to Emily Prentiss the Profiler: something has changed. _Doyle_ has changed.

Hadn't all of them?

"Where are you?" Emily questions with a sigh, pushing her bangs out of her face as she rubs her forehead.

_"Europe,"_ Sean replies vaguely. _"I was supposed to meet Parks, but he didn't show up."_ He hesitates._"There was a four-leaf clover sketch on the ground."_

Emily's breath gets caught up in her throat. Four-leaf clover is Doyle's signature; it's always been. What's more concerning is that it means he's watching Sean; it means Doyle not only knew he was going to meet Parks, but also when and where they were suppossed to meet. It takes a second before her heart resumes its beating, and for an almost imperceptible moment, she feels lightheaded. But the moment passes, and when she speaks again, it is in her usual Agent Prentiss tone.

"Monroe?"

_"No word."_

_Good._It means he's alive.

"What are you going to do?"

_"I'll keep moving, but I'm not meeting with Monroe. Have you told your team about Doyle yet?"_

Emily involuntarily glances at Morgan. "No."

_"Emily, do it,"_ Sean hisses, and his voice is hardened again. _"We don't know who's next. It could be me, Monroe, or you. You're not being careful; you're out in the open!"_

"I'm not in the open," Emily responds stoically, her voice just above a whisper. "Don't worry about me; take care of yourself."

_"Tell your team. Today."_

"I will tell them."

_"All right,"_ Sean concedes, but it's relenting; not assured. _"I'll call tomorrow."_

"I'll be waiting," she replies. An irritating click at the other end of the line, and the call ends.

The beeping of the line replaces Sean's rich voice, and Emily suddenly feels like being sucked into a void. She's sharply pulled back when an utterly feminine voice speaks a bit too close to her other ear.

"That sounded romantic."

She whirls around to see Garcia grinning at her, paused briefly on her stride to the catwalk. Emily blinks, leaving the headset back on its place.

"It did?"

"'I'll be waiting'? Hell, yeah."

Emily forces a grin at her, which, thankfully, comes out good enough to fool Garcia. The technical analyst winks and walks away, leaving Emily to her thoughts.

Parks is dead. Sean is in danger. No word from Monroe.

_Who's next?_ Emily wonders as she stands up and finally removes her long coat. Her gaze accidentally falls on Reid, and for a single moment, all thoughts halt in her mind when she sees the full expression on his face.

Reid turns away from her at lightning speed, but Emily's already got a satisfactory glimpse of the narrowed eyes and slight frown creasing his forehead. She can almost see the wheels turning from behind those round eyes.

_Damn it,_ she curses inwardly. _Damn it, Reid; damn your perceptiveness._

She throws her hair out of her face with an angry flash, pointedly turning her back to him and sitting down again. If he dares say a word, she'll kick his butt, she thinks.

With that perceptiveness, he better gets the message.

/

Reid saves his credibility (and his butt) by not approaching her about the issue. It is Morgan who questions Prentiss during lunch break and she can't blow him off. Instead, she gives him a vague answer about an old case being reopened and says she hates it when that happens. A closed case belongs to the past; it is not to be dug out and dusted later if it can be helped. That takes the conversation to a much safer route about the quirks of their job as Derek begins to recount one such incident from his cop days. Then Garcia comes by and distracts him, saving Emily from having to thread in dangerous waters.

As she fills her cup with a new brew of coffee in the afternoon, she asks herself, for the hundredth time, why exactly she's not telling the team them about Doyle. She's assured Sean that she will. She didn't lie; she intends to tell them. But something, some unidentifiable feeling is holding her back. Not yet. Just not yet; but why, she doesn't know. She just wants to keep it to herself until...

Until she believes it herself.

Despite her talks with Sean, despite the call from the Interpol, despite Parks' murder, what's happening is still strangely surreal to Emily. Distanced from herself, and despite her experience in the field, despite her intimate knowledge of Doyle and the entire case, there's no helping the dissociation she's feeling.

She will tell them when the time comes. For now, there's another phone call she needs to make.

She walks past her desk and up the catwalk, and knocks on Rossi's half-open door.

"May I come in?"

Rossi looks up from his desk. "Sure. What's up?"

Emily walks in and stands before him, hands clenching together in front of her torso, closed fingers intertwined in a characteristic gesture. "I need a favor," she admits. Rossi makes an interested face as he leans back in his seat.

"Shoot."

"I need to make a private phone call. _Work-related_ private call," she quickly clarifies upon seeing the rise of one of Dave's eyebrows. "I've been taking these calls from my desks but Reid and Morgan are having a bit of a problem switching off their profiler mood," she adds with a roll of her eyes. It earns her a snort.

"I'd imagine," Rossi agrees. He pushes himself up. "You need the office, you got it," he says easily. Emily smiles.

"Thank you," she says heartily as Rossi walks around the desk and Emily approaches the phone. She's reaching for the handset when Rossi speaks suddenly.

"Although I am curious," he says slowly with a frown, "why so private if it's work-related?"

It's a curious, simple question; Emily knows that if she doesn't answer, Rossi won't insist and will probably even apologize for probing. Perhaps that's why the answer she gives him is genuine.

"It's one of those old cases," she admits softly, "that one would just like to keep to herself, you know."

The understanding smile and nod Rossi gives her assures Emily that he does. Dave pulls the door close as he leaves.

With a sigh, Emily takes a seat and pulls the phone to herself. She's dreading this conversation with Ambassador Prentiss. But she'll leave nothing to chance, and definitely not the safety of her mother, so she will inform her about the situation.

Resignedly, she calls the operator, and asks to be connected to the American embassy in Serbia. She tells the secretary that her name is Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss, rolling her eyes as she imagines the frown on the unknown woman's face, and confirms that, yes, she works with the FBI, and yes, she is Ambassador Prentiss's daughter.

Then, it is directly her mother that finally picks up.

_"Emily?"  
_  
"Hello, mother," Emily greets, her tone carefully controlled.

_"Is everything all right?"  
_  
"Not really," she replies briskly. Down to the business; that's how their relationship has always been. This is no exception. "Is this a secure line?"

_"Of course it is. This is the embassy."  
_  
"I know it is, mother, but I'll be talking of sensitive information and if the call is intercepted in any way—"

_"What is going on?"_There's concern mingled with practiced solemnity in the Ambassador's voice, and Emily can easily picture every mimic and expression on her face as they speak.

"Mother, did you not hear my question?" she demands, rolling her eyes.

_"I did, Emily, and I answered it. This is a secure line. Are you all right?"  
_  
"Yes, I am."

_"All right, then. What is the matter that's so secretive?"  
_  
Emily straightens in her seat, eyes wandering on the bullpen area through the blinds in Rossi's office. "One of my old cases from the Interpol has reopened. A guy my team had captured has escaped from prison; Interpol believes everyone directly involved in his apprehension is in danger."

_"Oh my God."_The tone makes Emily marvel at how even the most immediate reactions can't escape being clasped in the Ambassador's calm and collected demeanor. It is an 'oh my God' which would sound fake to anyone other than Emily, but she knows her mother, and she knows she is genuine. Sean, after all, is far from being the only one Emily can profile through their voice.

"I'm all right; don't worry," she assures her quickly. "I called because…" She takes a sharp breath and shrugs her shoulders; a tic she's adopted to steel herself against what's coming. She swallows and keeps herself in the Agent Prentiss mode. "Interpol thinks our families may be in danger as well. They offered protection for you. I didn't accept it before talking to you."

There's not even a pause before the Ambassador responds. _"You did right. I'm just as well protected; I'll be fine. Did they offer you protection?"  
_  
"Yes, they did."

_"You didn't accept, of course."_

Emily can hear the knowing smile in her mother's voice, and she can't help that her lips slightly curl upward in the corners. They indeed are mother and daughter.

"I didn't. I'll be fine, mother; I just – don't want to worry about you."

_"You don't need to. I'm in Serbia, for God's sake. Do you know where in the world this guy is?"_

"We'd be chasing him down if we did, mother."

_"Oh. Well, of course."  
_  
Slowly, Emily pinches the bridge of her nose. The headache is creeping back into her skull, and she suddenly feels drained. The clock on the wall shows it's almost four. In the dimness of Rossi's office, Emily longingly thinks of a hot bath and undisturbed sleep in her bed. The desire is so sharp that she's nearly dozing off, literally in the blink of an eye, when her mother's voice jolts her into awareness.

_"Emily?"_

"I'm here." She sighs. "You're sure you're safe?"

_"I am. I'm protected by an army, Emily. I'm surrounded by bodyguards everywhere."_

"Okay. I'll check in with Interpol and have them brief your security about the man we're looking for, just in case."

_"Sounds like a plan,"_ her mother agrees. _"Don't worry about me. You've never agreed with it, but my job isn't much less dangerous than yours, Agent."_

Emily makes a gagging motion without a sound, but even then her lips stretch into a large smile at her mother's teasing. The similarities and differences between their jobs has always been a topic of controversy between them.

"So be it," she relents. Despite the angry sparks flying every time they interact, they have a way of sneaking past the energy between them, and it is then that they feel like mother and daughter. Emily almost cringes at the thought of something happening to her mother. "Be safe," she says.

_"You be safe, my Emily,"_the Ambassador replies. Emily nods.

"I will. I love you, mom."

It's a great thing, being able to always say this, despite everything, no matter how badly she usually wants to be away from her.

_"I love you, too,"_ her mother responds softly. Slowly, Emily leaves the handset back in its place.

All things considered, she thinks, it could go much worse.


End file.
